To My Dearest
by binnibeans
Summary: As they go through their lives, Alfred and Arthur sometimes exchange letters to keep in touch, explain situations, or just to remind the other of some important things.


**A/N:** Hey there, it's been a while since I've posted anything up here, huh? :]; This is from LJ's usxuk's Secret Santa! My recipient was Chiisana, and this was beta'd by my dear friends Gabbi, Luna, and Pie! Hope you enjoy it!

If something's in [brackets], it was striked out.

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><p><strong>i; -2010<strong>

They're both nineteen when it starts. Well, technically one can say it starts when they're just 6 years old, but things really take off at 19. Alfred and Arthur have nearly always been friends, if not acquaintances. Arthur's family moved in next door after he turned 5, but he never really went outside unless it was to go to the special, expensive private kindergarten closer to the downtown area. Finally his parents decided it wasn't worth it, and gave him a 'normal' education, with 'normal' friends. Like Alfred. Though they sometimes played together, they truly only became friends the summer Alfred turned 15. (He often visited to do some yard work for an extra dollar.) After a particular incident involving a weed whacker, a dog, and a small bunch of baby bunnies, the two were forced to write letters of apology to each other. Soon after, Alfred and Arthur were nearly inseparable, taking notice of something embedding itself within either of them.

(Don't worry: No one, or animal, was hurt.)

At nineteen years old, Alfred is a student at the state university, playing football. Okay, not really playing; he's basically a bench-warmer, but soon…. Very soon…. Also at that university is Arthur, whose family decided on moving back to the UK. Unlike Alfred, Arthur is busy in the theater during the games. Likewise, during plays, Alfred finds himself swamped with extra physics and geology homework, and needing to cram for that calculus exam he forgot about. They finally find time to hang out a few weeks later in Alfred's dorm (because Arthur's apartment is simply too messy). It's while they're hanging out they both realize they've been noticing certain things about the other: How they move, their speech patterns, the small slants of smirks, or curve of smiles. They start thinking of how that smirk, or smile, might feel against their own lips….

It's Arthur who initiates it ("Oh come, now—I'm a theater major. You hadn't figured it out?"), and at first Alfred may be a little shocked, but he finds that he actually really likes how Arthur's lips feel, and he really likes the feeling growing in his stomach. Something grows warm in their chests, but it's not entirely unfamiliar. It's something that's always been there, but is finally getting the chance to grow.

A year later, and they're going steady. Walking down the street of the university's downtown area, Arthur readily takes Alfred's hand in his and they talk about a myriad of things. Music, movies, art, sports, history.

Military.

Three years later – a fight, a break-up, a make-up, training, and deployment – they're 23, and Alfred does something he's discovered he's always wanted to do: Sit in his tent and write a letter to his sweetheart. (He would like you to take note of the heavy sarcasm of the situation.) Of course, it's not the same as he may or may not recall from _The Pacific_; sitting in a tent or something similar as the rain pours down, allowing him to write away. Instead it's hot, really hot, and his glasses are doing nothing to deflect the sand from getting in his eyes as his hand starts to cramp from writing.

_Hey, handsome!_

_I can't tell you how hot it is here. Who knew you could fry eggs on the desert sand?_

_I still haven't seen a whole lot of action. A couple skirmishes, but nothing big. I can't tell if that's good or bad._

_I really miss you—and your cooking. (Surprising, right?) The boys and I have fun, but it's not the same without you. The longer I'm away, the more miserable I get. I'd rather be back there with you, enjoying the snow, the decorations, dinner, and the fireplace. The guys all talk about their gals, but all I can think about is you, and go on, and on about what an awesome guy I got waiting for me back stateside._

_Oh hey! I got you a present! On my R&R, I got a copy of Sherlock Holmes for you! Speaking of which, all the guys got cookies for Christmas. How come you sent me coal? Here I am fighting for you, and I get coal…._

_Christmas is coming soon. All I can think about is how I can't be there with you, and the Christmas Truce. When I think of that, I suddenly don't want to fight anymore. [__I don't want to die, but I can't lie. I get up every morning thanking God I woke up, and I fall asleep mid-prayer. I've never been a religious guy, but I really _really _don't wanna die. I'm really scared, Art.]_

_When I get home, I'm just going to hold you, and never let you go. Never. I don't care how badly your cat (or you) scratches me._

Can't write anything else right now—I'm so tired, I might start writing incoherent sentences, and I know I'll never hear the end of that!

Love,  
>Alfred<p>

Arthur, in the meantime, sits at home and writes up small reviews for new theater productions, and movies. He takes up the odd role, here-and-there, also working at a café or two when he can. When he's not working, he spends his time reading _Sherlock Holmes _over and over again, writing, or changing their cats' litter box. He does some sewing and needlework, takes care of the herbs and flowers he has in small pots around the apartment, and generally tries to not bother anyone he doesn't have to. Twice a year, for the 3 years Alfred is in the Middle East, Arthur takes a flight back home for 2 or 3 weeks. While in America, he misses his family – his mum, his dad, his brothers – and then after only 2 hours, he remembers why he'd rather stay away from them.

One day, Arthur is stomping home to his and Alfred's apartment. It's a rainy spring day, his birthday, and the rain is drowning everything it possibly can. He's drenched, but he doesn't care to run to shelter. The fact he's now 26 years old and his boyfriend is still out God-knows-where only helps to make his mood worse. While at the café, he'd been met with the most unusual customers. He assumed they were a group of university students from Europe, but … they caused so much trouble—especially for him! They were obnoxious, took forever, and visibly bothered other patrons. Arthur had been pulled away, once they were settled, to be told that he needed to perform better, or he was fired.

So he's a little miffed, marching home. Perhaps a nice cuppa, and a bit of music in the background could help calm him down. He speeds up some, eager for the relaxation, until he almost literally runs into someone. He stumbles back some, wincing to embrace impact with the concrete just in case, though he catches his balance before something so painful can happen. "Ah, terribly sorry; it's my fault," he stutters out. "Are you all ri—?"

"Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes, formerly trained on the ground in front of him, snap up and focus on the man in front of him. His eyes widen as he looks. It can't be…. Alfred can't be home! Alfred would have let him know, but yet there, before him…. "Alfred—"

"Matthew." Matthew's voice is short; curt. He sighs, forcing a kind of sarcastic grin on his face as he closes his eyes. (Violet. Not blue, like his brother's.)

An embarrassed blush comes to Arthur's cheeks. "O-of course…!" Looking beyond that first glance, he can see it. It's not Alfred at all. "Of course…. I'm sorry, so sorry. Are you all right? I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Don't worry about it, I wasn't watching where I was going, either. Funny, since I was looking for you, eh?" Matthew pauses, and Arthur dusts himself off some. "Are you busy right now?"

The two converse, and Matthew reveals that he wants to check out a new movie. The tea can wait, right? Hanging out with someone might help a bit more than just drinking tea. The only problem is Matthew's resemblance to Alfred. Arthur can tell the difference between them, of course. It may take a moment, but looking closer, it should be obvious, shouldn't it? Matthew's features are just slightly softer, his hair longer with a bit of a wave. Alfred's just a little rougher. Arthur keeps taking side-shots at Matthew, and with each one he grows more and more sad that it's not Alfred. The only good part is that the rain seems to have stopped.

Matthew notices after a bit, and as they approach the theater, he stops them at the bus stop across the street. "I'll go see if they're sold out or not."

A bit perplexed, Arthur watches Matthew jog off, and sits down. The water squelches under him, and he winces. Oh yeah—he's soaking wet. Well, that won't do for the theater's cushioned seats, now will it? "Hope the tickets are sold out," he sighs to himself.

A moment passes, and Matthew is out of sight. Arthur is sitting there, bored, and he's even started humming to himself. An old song. Well, not really _old_, but he's fond of it, and he's listened to it for almost 20 years, now. He can't recall the title; just the melody, and he's okay with that. It brings a grin to his face, and his eyes grow a little glazed.

He's shocked to hear someone start humming along with him. He jumps, grabbing at his chest with a gasp, and closes his eyes after he glances up and sees it's just Matthew.

"Christ, Matthew!" he breathes. "You'll give me a heart attack. Tell me, have you considered taking up assassination?"

"_Matth_ew? Geesh! You must'a been hanging around him way too much."

Arthur looks up now, confused and with a sharp, "What?" He finds a newcomer standing there, and looks.

And looks.

Blinks.

Looks.

And then releases something between a scream, yell, shriek, sob, gasp, and moan.

Standing before him is Alfred. He's in his fatigues, his beret sitting precariously on his head. He has a book bag, and a large duffle bag on his person. He's got a bit of a smile on his face, quirked into a silly look. "Way to greet me home! Wrong name n' everything."

Arthur opens his mouth and attempts to get _Alfred_ out. What exits does contain _Alfred_, but most of it is a combination of a moan and a sob, and he jumps quickly from his seat and his arms are around Alfred's neck before even he realizes it. That he's wet is of no concern to either of them as Alfred's arms wrap tightly around him. A few sobs escape Arthur, and between them are curses like, "You bastard, you never told me you were coming home!" "I'd have made a big dinner!" but mostly, "Dammit's!" broken up by a few, "I love you's." He breathes Alfred's scent in, his heart beating an odd rhythm to counter that of the sobs that manage to escape him.

Despite Arthur being soaking wet, he manages to feel a few tears drop on to the back of his neck. He grins to himself and holds Alfred closer. Thinking about it, it's Alfred who needs this moment more than Arthur.

A few years later, Matthew will remind them that he has a recording of this moment.

**ii; 2021**

The last 10 years have been something extraordinary. Their wedding and reception in 2011 had been somewhat small—just a short ceremony with their families. (Though the reception is something Arthur has always tried to forget). Soon after, Alfred found a place at the police department, which sent Arthur into a month of worry. ("You spent three years fighting and defending others already—what about finishing university, and getting a job as a geologist? Far safer, and less worrisome for me!") They bought a small, modest house near the edge of the city, with the plans to live happily ever after. (Maybe with an argument here-and-there.) And so far?

Things _have _been pretty happily ever after.

Except now, as Arthur is storming into a hotel room in Derbyshire. Plenty of hours have passed, as well as almost a good 600 US dollars, and the smaller details of the fight are beginning to leave him. It had started out with Arthur's apparent inability to cook. The beginnings of the fight hadn't been anything new—Alfred always makes fun of his cooking, and Arthur (while it doesn't_please_him) manages to brush it off. He can't recall what set his mood off, but he does know that he said some things that weren't very nice, Alfred said things that weren't very nice, and both tried to defend themselves. Which didn't go over very well.

The particularly bad parts of the fight replay themselves for him as he falls face-first onto the bed: Him prying his wedding ring off of his finger and chucking it at Alfred. The ring falling on the floor with a sound that refused to stop playing in his head. His angry declaration for want of a divorce.

Yes, that had been the worst. He knew perfectly well he didn't want a divorce—he still doesn't. After all the leaps and bounds necessary for them to attain a marriage license, and the trust they've put in the other, divorce would be…. Well, it would just be extremely unpleasant. Beneath him he can feel his pillow start to dampen, and he gives a muffled sniffle. He's thirty-eight years old, there's no need for this crying! Yet, it won't stop; he can't help but think of what an idiot he is to have said those things. He might blame it on the heat of the moment, but … that excuse is a distasteful cop-out. He knows that, and he won't do that.

So instead he continues to beat on himself, until his phone alerts him of a missed call. Groaning and with a headache he pulls the phone out to find he's missed several of his husband's calls, and by several he means 27. At first he glares at the screen in anger, only realizing again a moment later that he's (mostly) the one at fault. There are a few voicemail messages that he makes the mistake of listening to. ('Mistake' being that he ends up forcing himself to not cry or bang his head against the wall.) Alfred insists that Arthur calls and comes home, and that he's sorry for everything he said.

Arthur's pride is big, though, and he can't bring himself to press the call button. Instead he ends up calling his brother Gavin, which ends up with Gavin and James taking him out to a pub. The night ends with Arthur knocked out on his hotel bed, and his morning begins with a miserable groan. His headache is pounding as though he spent all night in front of a rave club's subwoofer, and his mouth has a horrific taste. A few hours pass before he can bring himself to open his eyes. And move around. And brush his teeth (several times). And shower.

And check his phone.

Checking his phone causes Arthur to groan, and even possibly make his headache start to hurt even worse. Alfred's made many more calls, and he's even sent an email. At first Arthur throws his phone to the side—just for a moment. It's not long before he scrambles back to it and opens the message up.

_Arthur,_

_Listen, i know you'r probably ignoring me but i'm relaly sorry! i didn't mean what i said! please come back home, i dunno where you went but if you don't tell me i'm gonna put out a missing person's alert! i'm really worried, i don't want a divorce either! i've still got your ring, but i don't wan it in my hand, i want it back on your finger. it's to heavy for me. i also still have your sherlock holmes book here... its weird seeing it somewhere.. . not near you._

_Getting into fights isn't anything new to us. saying things we don't mean isn't new! i mean, i guess that doesn't make it right or anything, but still! please don't hate me. i don't hate you, and i really want you home._

_I feel supe r bad and when you get home i'll do whatever you want! i'll treat you to all the restaurants you want! (As long we can go to mcdonald's at least once.) i can get you all those books you've been wanting, and all the quilting supplies at the craft store. (It might be a few paychecks, but...)_

_Please come home, Arthur. I miss you, your eyebrows, your pout, your scowl, your sweater vests, your ranting about actors and entertainment tonight, your hair, the music you blare when you clean and don't think i'm their, your tea, and even your scones! you can't just leave me here all of a sudden with no warning, it's not good for my health. or yours._

_if you don't call me, i'm calling your family!_

_i love you Arthur. very much. please come home :(_

_Love,_  
><em>Alfred<em>

Arthur groans even more. He doesn't want Alfred to make up for anything. He wants to go home, but he can't. Maybe he can blame it on his pride, but there's a part of him that really just wants to let himself sort everything out. He reads the email through again, typos and all, and realizes that his finger _does_feel rather light, and naked—cold, even. Arthur lets himself believe he's confused about what he wants, and decides a nice stroll through the park will do him good.

**iii; 2056**

Alfred has just turned 73. Yep! Seventy-three. More than his birthday, he's more excited about something else. That something else is his and Arthur's 45th wedding anniversary, on the next coming day.

Arthur is busy in the kitchen making some tea and being a crotchety old man (this comment was what helped Alfred kick himself out of the kitchen), and Alfred has the day off. He's picking up a few things Arthur's forgotten he left lying about, and finding a couple that Arthur's sworn were stolen away. He grins to himself as he picks up an old copy of _Sherlock Holmes_from under Arthur's chaise—he must have fallen asleep and dropped it last night. It's worn, yellowed, and the paper-back binding is loose from wear. The corners are softened from being dropped and tumbled, and a few stains decorate the edges of the pages. Opening it up, it releases that old-book smell. It's in what Arthur would call perfect reading condition. Arthur's a pretty cute guy, even in old age, Alfred thinks, and he places the book with the other things in his arms.

Something catches his attention though, and he realizes that there's an envelope sticking out of the pages. At first Alfred thinks it's a bookmark, but it's rather pretty-looking, and Alfred can't help but want to look at the rest of it. So Alfred sets everything down, sliding the envelope from the book, and sits down (with absolutely no trouble, thank you). He adjusts his glasses, and reads the front of the envelope.

_To my Dearest Friend and Husband, Alfred_

Alfred grins fondly. He might regret it later, but it's addressed to him! He has every right to open it! So his fingers set to work on opening it, and two paper-cuts later, Alfred unfolds the … parchment. Another glasses-adjustment later, and Alfred reads on.

_Alfred,_

_I've no clear point to make in this letter. Yet in that there is everything._

_Alfred, do you remember the fight we had those years ago? I cannot even recall what we fought about, honestly. I was so furious with you. I threw my ring at you and booked the first flight to England. I know I said I wanted one, but I never truly wanted a divorce. Those nights back home were horrible; I was a drunken, sobbing mess made no better by my brothers, and then you arrive, and hold me, and let me cry. You let me have my ring back, and you smiled that same smile. I was reassured once again, even if I should not have needed it after being married for ten years, that no matter how angry we were with each other, we would still be deeply in love, and get through it together._

_I don't often confess myself to you in all the words I myself desire and love to hear. I know perfectly well that back then, and even now, I'm not the most agreeable of men, and it can sometimes be difficult to get along with me. Yet, you still are always smiling. You have always been there for me, without fail, even if I haven't wanted you there. Your smile brightens my day, even when I want nothing more than for it to go away. It is infectious, and gets under my skin even today, yet it never fails to bring a grin to this old face._

_I cannot imagine how incredibly dull my life would be without you in it. Yes, I studied what I loved, and I wouldn't change it, but I cannot imagine it having been nearly as much fun without you to come home to, or to interrupt when I least expected it. It's true that I may have chanced upon some luck to go back to England and possibly live up to Shakespeare (though rather unlikely), but…. I prefer staying here, with you._

_So many people say, "My love for you grows daily," but it would be a lie to say such a thing. Alfred, I have loved you so deeply since before I can recall. You have always been a part of my life, and I cannot think of a life lacking every little thing you are without becoming incredibly saddened._

_You are my friend. My best friend. You are my husband, and the man I love. From training wheels to '38 Fords; from Tooth Fairy quarters to retirement checks. You've been there supporting me. You've made me a better man; a better person, even if it took 45 years of marriage._

_Sixty-eight years of being together._

_Alfred, you have managed to fill all my wishes. Wishes I hadn't realized I had; wishes I hadn't realized you filled! I've only one wish left that I desire you grant: That you continue to love me for the rest of our lives. We are old now, but I still get the same feeling in my chest when you hold my hand, kiss me, and tell me you love me. That feeling is still strong and burning bright. That feeling alone makes me believe we can live forever—and I think we will._

_There is no way I can properly say it, or make it fancy, with frills. As well, I cannot allow myself to say something clichéd, such as, "You are my sunshine," or, "You are the stars in my sky." I hope this instead shall suffice._

_I love you, Alfred F. Jones._

_I'm proud to say that you're mine._

_Your friend and husband, for 45 years and forever more,_  
><em>Arthur Kirkland<em>

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><p>END<p> 


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